“No,” Abner said, “no drink until you get back.”
“Aw, Ab—”
“Now move!”
Griffiths watched the old drunk stumble through the batwing doors. He righted himself briefly, rubbed his mouth, and squinted at the sun. On a hunch, he stepped into the man’s way.
“Where ya goin’, ol’-timer?”
“Who’s askin’?”
“A man with money for a drink is askin’.” Griffiths took some coins from his pocket and let them jingle in his hands.
Pete’s eyes widened. “I—I got an errand to run for Abner.”
“Who’s Abner?”
“Fella runs the saloon,” Pete said. “The bartender?”
“The nigger?”
“That’s…uh, yeah, Abner.”
“What’s the errand, old man?” Ray Dolner asked, stepping up next to Pete.
“I, uh, I’m supposed to go and tell the sheriff that there’s trouble brewin’.”
“What kind of trouble?” Griffiths asked.
Still eyeing the hand that was holding his drink money, Pete said, “Uh, I dunno.”
“Trouble where?” Dolner asked.
“Here, I guess.”
“Tell you what,” Griffiths said. “You go inside and have a drink on us and we’ll deliver the message to the sheriff.”
“Ya will?”
“Sure.”
“That’s real nice of ya.”
“We’re friendly people,” Dolner said.
“Here ya go, old man,” Griffiths said, putting the coins into the old man’s hands. “Ray, why don’t you help our new friend back into the saloon?”
“Gotcha,” Dolner said.
He walked Pete back to the batwing doors, then made a spectacle out of holding the doors open for him.
“Enjoy your drink, ol’-timer,” Dolner said and left the batwings swinging in his wake as he left.
Abner saw one of the four strangers usher Pete back into the saloon.
“You deliver that message, Pete?” he asked when Pete got to the bar.
“Uh, no, but some new friends of mine said they’d do it, Ab,” he replied. “I got money for a drink now.”
Abner knew he should have put a back door in a long time ago. He also knew that Pete might break his neck trying to climb out a window.
“Yeah, okay, Pete,” Abner said. “One drink.”
He poured the old man a shot of whiskey, then stopped Pete’s hand as he tried to bring it to his lips.
“Go slow,” Abner said, “I ain’t givin’ you another one.”
“I can pay!” Pete said indignantly.
“You keep that money in your pocket, Pete,” Abner said, “and nurse that there drink.”
Abner released Pete’s hand and walked to the end of the bar so he could look out the front window. Sure enough, the four men were milling around out there. He knew they were waiting for the Shayes to come out and the Shayes knew it too. Folks had been leaving the three men alone during their infrequent visits to town. Now Dan Shaye was in town for the second day in a row and trouble was already dogging him.
There was going to be trouble. Even though it wouldn’t be their fault, Abner knew the Shayes would get the blame.
That’s just the way it was.
11
“Just sit tight, boys,” Shaye said to his sons. He got up and walked to the bar to talk to Abner.
“They still outside?”
“Jest waitin’,” Abner said. “I tried to send Pete for the sheriff, but they sent him back in.”
“Looks like they’ve got their minds made up.”
“Looks like,” the black man said. “You goin’ out there?”
“Got to, eventually,” Shaye said.
“Want me and my shotgun to go wit’ ya?”
“No, Abner,” Shaye said, “I want you and your shotgun to stay behind the bar, where you belong.”
Abner looked around at his customers, then said, “Ain’t nobody else gonna stand wit’ ya, Dan.”
“I’ve got my boys,” Shaye said. “Should be enough to handle those four.”
“When you gonna do it?”
Shaye shrugged.
“I’m not in a hurry to leave. Haven’t got my telegram yet. Maybe they’ll get tired of waiting.”
Abner doubted that, but remained silent.
“Don’t worry, Abner,” Shaye said.
“Ain’t fair.”
“What?”
“I said it ain’t fair,” the barkeep said. “Folks been leavin’ you alone up ta now. Ain’t right some strangers come through town and cause trouble.”
“Fair’s got nothing to do with it, Abner,” Shaye said. “Nothing at all.”
He turned and went back to the table.
“What are we gonna do, Pa?” James asked.
“We’re going to wait for our telegram, James,” Shaye said.
“What about those men?”
Shaye looked toward the batwing doors. “Might as well let them wait too.”
An hour later Paul Brocco started to fidget impatiently, then Lem Sanders joined in.
“Can’t the two of you stand still?” Ray Dolner complained.
“How long we gonna wait?” Paul asked.
“As long as it takes,” Griffiths said.
Some men had left the saloon and others had entered during the past hour, but apparently no one had gone for the sheriff. There was no lawman in sight. Paul still wondered how Griffiths knew that the drunk had been heading for the sheriff’s office.
“Somebody comin’,” Dolner said.
They all turned to take a look. Griffiths recognized the white shirt and sleeve garters of some kind of clerk. The visor on his head meant he was probably from the telegraph office.
“Interestin’,” Griffiths said. “He’s in a hurry.”
The clerk hurried to the front of the saloon, but as he prepared to enter, Griffiths blocked his path.
“In a bit of a hurry, ain’tcha?”
“I got a telegram to deliver,” the clerk said.
“Who to?”
The clerk was not going to answer the question, but the other three men closed rank around him.
“Uh, it’s for Mr. Shaye.”
“Which one?” Griffiths asked.
“Uh, Daniel Shaye.”
“I’ll take it.”
Before the clerk could move or say a word, Griffiths had grabbed the telegram from his hand.
“Hey…well, uh, you’ll give it to him?”
“No,” Griffiths said. “You go inside and tell him I have it. Tell him he’ll have to come out and get it.”
“Um…if I do that, he’ll be mad.”
“I’m countin’ on it.”
The other men moved out of his way and the confused clerk entered the saloon.
“What’s the telegram say?” Paul asked.
“Who cares?” Griffiths said and put it in his shirt pocket, unread.
“Finally,” Shaye said as the telegraph clerk entered the saloon. The man stopped just inside, looked around, spotted their table, and hesitated. “Something’s wrong. James, get him.”
James reacted immediately, got to the clerk before the man could make a move. He grabbed his arm and walked him across the room to the table. The other patrons and Abner all watched, but Shaye didn’t care anymore that they were the center of attention.
“Do you have my telegram?” Shaye asked.
“Well…”
“Come on, man, speak up!”
“Some men outside took it from me,” the clerk said. “They told me to tell you that if you want it you have to go and get it.” Hurriedly, he added, “It wasn’t my fault, Mr. Shaye—”
“I know that,” Shaye said. He took some money out and handed it to the man without looking to see how much it was. “You can go.”
“I—I don’t wanna go back out there…”
“Go to the bar and have a drink.”
“Yessir.”